HOTD: American Survivor
by ChaoticCrazy
Summary: A background story on my OC, Geoffrey Dean Kuribayashi. Tells his response to Z-Day, and my way of giving authors I've submitted my OC to to obtain information about my character. Enjoy.


HOTD: American Survivor

**For those that are aware of my HOTD OC, this is a story involving his response to Z-Day, as well as background information to work off of for those authors that are using my OC. Enjoy.**

Narita International Airport

Tokyo, Japan

1300 hours, Z-Day

People screamed in fear as the doors to the airport were closed and barred, police officers barring exit. They didn't even have to, since the travelers were all scrambling to get as far into the airport was possible as the sight of the undead stumbled to the entranceways.

Officers warily eyed the scene, all of them itching for their weapons but not firing.

Then the terminal doors closed, stranding travelers in the airport as airplanes slowly detached themselves from their respective terminals.

Individuals that had more money on hand bribed the attendants to be loaded on, but even then a small flood threw themselves into the airplanes, intent on leaving the horror behind them.

Barely fifteen minutes later, shots started ringing out, loud cracks that pierced the air and broke the mob of travelers into a frenzy. Many tried even harder to get out, but few escaped out of the building proper, with those that did gaining despair as they reached the opening to the gates and stared at the runways, with jets taking off with various screams of their engines.

The gunfire stopped, and an eerie silence broke over the crowd as they realized what had happened.

Then the moaning started. It began with one voice, and then it spread to dozens more as a wave of rotting flesh passed through the doors and entered the airport. A few of the police officers dead on the floor lurched up, joining the eerie crescendo.

But as if an act of God prevailed, a large and heavy barricade fell from the roof of one of the rooms, and soon another half dozen followed suit as they automatically fell, forming a barricade between the undead and the humans.

However, a few unfortunate souls were trapped outside of the barricade, and those inside could only stand by as they heard the screams comparable to wild animals emit from the other side, before being immediately cut off.

None, however, noticed an individual tear open a panel to an air vent, who then crawled inside, dragging his rucksack behind him. A few seconds later, the vent was set back into place, and it looked like nobody had moved it at all.

Now outside, Geoffrey Kuribayashi cracked a small smile as he pulled himself out of the air vent, his upper body out in the air.

He turned his head to look behind him and below, and got a good look at the backsides of close to a hundred of "Them". He grunted at the knowledge that his guess was proven correct. The screams of the unfortunate souls on the other side of the barricade proved more than enough of a distraction to cover his escape.

Forcing the rest of his body out of the vent, he hung a good six feet above the ground, his hands on the rim of the vent keeping him dangling.

Lifting himself up until his arms and upper body were back in the vent, he grabbed the large black rucksack he left behind as well as a green steel box strapped onto the outside of it before letting go of the vent.

His sneakers hit the asphalt loud enough for him to pause, staring cautiously at the mob of "them" uncertainly. None made a move towards him as another scream arose from the other side.

He slowly slunk away from the scene, intent on holing up in the nearest derelict building and kitting himself out from there.

Opening up his rucksack and coming out with a leather pouch, he extricated a weapon to use until he could better prepare himself.

Yanking out an old Bowie knife, its hilt a dull bronze after decades of use and leather lightened from dirt and natural elements, he proceeded to get out of Dodge and find a place of temporary refuge.

Derelict office building, 3 kilometers from Narita International Airport

Tokyo, Japan

Approximately, 1500 hours

Geoffrey slumped against a wall on the second floor of the office building, releasing a sigh of relief as he set down his rucksack and letting his knife slip onto the ground.

His mind flashed back for a moment to the events leading up to now, still not able to piece together how this…this horror manifested itself…

He remembered getting in an argument with his Japanese-American mother over his decision to join the United States military. He told her he wanted to do his part for his country. She told him he would get himself killed and that the United States didn't have to use violence to achieve peace.

He remembered calling his father, a captain in the United States Army, and told him he would be flying over to Texas to meet up with him. He told him he would be staying around for a few months until he could get his paperwork in order and enlist. Hell, he even told him he would be able to pay for sleeping under his roof.

That night he packed up his military rucksack, shoving in his camelback, a first-aid kit, survival gear, MRE's, snacks, even a few extra sets of clothes, as well as a few of his shadier "goodies".

He recalled that he decided to purchase a ticket out of Japan for the morning, the plane leaving at two in the afternoon. He even ditched high school to get there early.

He remembered walking into the airport at noon, and before he went to check in his luggage he ate lunch at a café. It would prove later to be a life-saver.

Just as he was about to check in his luggage to be put into the cargo hold the "event" occurred. Dark shapes massing outside, cops barring the doors, leaving some travelers to die outside. The ones inside rushed to get to the terminals. He joined them for a while before he stepped to the side, avoiding the mob rush.

He noticed that a mixture of Special Weapons and Tactics and United States Marines had set up in a room to the side. He could clearly see a squad of Marines checking out their M4 carbines for malfunctions, and the SWAT team stood to the side. Two were already loaded up and helmeted, their only sign of gender being their physique, marking them as male. He noticed a female off in a corner, calibrating the scope on a PSG-1 sniper rifle. Next to her was a rather skinny SWAT member with a spotting scope set to one side and racking the slide on a Sig-Saur pistol.

He had nearly grinned as he noticed a pile of ammunition and boxes to one side, and swiftly hid himself as the group suddenly got up and hustled towards the doorway, their faces showing surprise and shock. They all shot by without a second glance, already locking and loading their weapons.

He slid in like a wraith and pounced upon the store of ammunition. Opening up a box of ammunition he tore out a green steel box that was marked in bold letters on the side "200 CARTRIDGES 7.62 MM, NATO M118".

Popping open the top, he looked inside to see the rounds neatly lined up in rows, each held in a reusable belt similar to ones put into a machine gun.

He hastily yanked the rounds out of the belt, dumping them into the box as he started yanking the belt out. After emptying the belt, he smiled at the knowledge that with the ammo in a pile at the bottom of the steel box, he had room for more ammunition.

Carefully looking through boxes holding both commercial and military ammunition, he nearly cried in delight as he found another treasure; two 50 round boxes of .45 ACP ammunition. He casually opened the box and dumped the ammunition inside, not caring if the rounds mixed inside; Time was of the essence.

Finally he scrounged about at the bottom and nearly fainted as he found one of the most unlikely finds in the box; a sealed tin of 7.62x39mm ammunition, with the words M67 stamped on top. He tossed the tin into the can, clenching his teeth at the clang sound before closing up the box, which took some effort due to the tin sticking out.

He scanned the room once more and gingerly crepted over to a pile of unloaded weapons leaning against the wall. Skimming the pile, he noticed that a Marine left behind an M14 DMR, and without a second of hesitation relieved it of a few empty steel magazines; their were still another dozen or so magazines next to it anyway. He did the same to a beat-up looking AK-47 that someone must have brought, hefting the nearly half-pound magazines as if they were gold bars.

He frowned as he noticed no pistols were about, but that didn't matter; he had enough as it was.

He jerked as he heard the mob start screaming, folks trampling each other and gunfire being heard near the entrance. He knew he was pushing his luck already; it was time to "get out of Dodge."

Grabbing his rucksack and slinging it across his back, he lifted the box of ammunition by the carrying handle, though he grunted as he noticed how heavy it was.

He trudged out of the room, scrambling to find a way out.

One glance back told him to not go for the entrances, and looking ahead he could only see a mass of flesh trying to hurl themselves into terminals.

He moved to the side, shoving people out of his way, the ammo box being a great boon in pushing people away.

He got himself to the side and scanned about. He took note of an air vent and started coming up with an idea…

He threw himself back into the present with a gasp, and popped open the ammo can to check his stores. Sure enough, everything was still there.

He left the box open next to him as he opened the top of his rucksack and got changed into what he brought.

First off he grabbed a pair of dog tags off of the top of sack, a gift from his father. On the two tags it clearly stated

KURIBAYASHI

GEOFFREY D.

TYPE A

NO PREFERENCE

The first two lines stated his name, the third line gave his blood type, his fourth his religion of preference. Most military personnel kept their Social Security Number on it, but since he got it for his fourteenth birthday, he didn't have a need for one.

Putting the tags on, he took off his jeans and graphic tee and replaced them with a tan undershirt, and a camouflage blouse and cargo pants. Custom made, it pretty much was two BDU blouses and trousers sown together, with one side being the US M81 Woodland camouflage, a mixture of patches of black, brown, and green, and when flipped inside out, was of the Soviet _Gorod_ urban camouflage, which was comprised of patches of light blue, dark blue/black, gray, and brown. Both sides had four pockets up front on the blouse and a half-dozen more on the pants.

As he slipped into the uniform he decided it would better suit his purposes if the urban camo was shown, and before he knew it was tossing his sneakers and clothes down into his backpack before pulling out a pair of slightly worn jungle boots and thick cotton socks.

Yanking out a shoeshine kit, he gave the boots a light polish before slipping on his socks, then followed by the size eleven boots with such ease as to look like he did it every day of his life.

Pulling out a black web belt, he slipped the accessory around his waist, leaving it open so he could pull out a worn leather sheath. Slipping it onto his belt and letting it rest on his right hip, he picked up the Bowie knife from off the ground and slipped it into the sheath, securing it in place with the clasp on the sheath.

Pulling out a leather holster he slipped it onto his left hip, strapping it down tight, with a magazine pouch sliding next to it.

Pulling out a small black box Geoffrey pulled out a key, and with a flourish set the key into a lock on the box before unlocking it. Popping the top open, he reverently pulled out a pistol.

It was a M1911 pistol, its blued frame slowly turning lighter from much use, yet it still gleamed as the sun poured into the building. Its wooden checkered grips fit like a glove in the young mans hand, its five-inch barrel pointing like a finger downwards. Peering down the fixed iron sights, he satisfied himself by pressing the magazine release, letting an empty 7-round magazine drop from the weapon.

Pulling out five more magazines that he procured, both legitimately and illegitimately, he busied himself with loading up the half-dozen magazines ammunition, picking out .45 ACP ammunition from the ammo box with much aplomb.

After loading up the magazines he came to a quick realization, and as an afterthought pulled out another magazine, an extended 10-round magazine that he bought off a Yakuza dealer that truthfully claimed it was made by Norinco, a Chinese firearms company that was famous for bare-bones, reliable guns.

Filling up the magazine, he slipped it into his pistol, smirking as he noted the magazine stuck out a good two inches from the bottom of the pistol. Filling in the magazine pouch with another four magazines, he temporarily set down the remaining two magazines and pulled out his last gift form his father, an Improved Tactical Vest.

Highly frowned upon by the Japanese government due to it being considered body armor, the vest was shipped without armor plates, but even then the vest itself could stop a 9mm pistol round dead in its tracks. But more importantly, however, was its ability to hold pouches that could contain equipment.

Slipping the vest on and tightening the straps, he opened up a pouch on the vest and slipped the two remaining magazines inside.

He then sat on the floor as the hard part of kitting himself out began.

Pulling out a large nylon cloth, he opened it up and let a pile of parts hit the ground. It didn't matter, considering the item in question was built to take a beating anyway.

Grabbing the heart of the metal pieces, he remembered the memory of two years ago of him trading ten thousand yens worth of sake to get a Yakuza member to get drunk enough to hand over a fully assembled Serbian lower receiver.

Pulling out a shiny black barrel from the pile, Kuribayashi pushed and twisted the barrel into place, the selector switch and magazine release being installed in under ten minutes and with the trigger group setting into place less than half an hour later.

Slapping on the wooden hand guards and gas block, the definite form of the weapons slowly emerged.

Installing the fixed wooden stock and pushing in the bolt system into the weapon, he pushed the recoil spring behind the bolt and set it in place before slapping on the dust cover.

Pushing the selector switch down one notch he pulled back the charging handle and let go, the click letting him know the weapons was almost ready.

Double checking to see the bayonet lug and the slanted muzzle brake was still in place he pulled out an AKM Type II bayonet, complete with Yugoslavian markings, and clipped it onto the end of the rifle. Shaking the weapon around, and satisfied with the results, he removed the blade.

Hefting his newly-created Zastava M70B2 assault rifle in one hand he pulled out a worn olive-colored sling and tied it to the two swivel points on the rifle.

Setting it aside for the time being, he hauled out his supply of a dozen AK-47 magazines, all of them beat-up steel affairs that looked liked they just came out of the ex-Warsaw states.

Pulling out the locked-up tin of 7.62x39mm ammunition, he popped open the top and shook the tin to allow the rounds to become a jumbled mess.

Picking up the ammunition he patiently shoved round after round into the magazines, taking nearly an hour to load up all the magazines.

Placing the magazines into his vest, he shoved a magazine into the Kalashnikov, moved the selector switch down another notch to semi-automatic fire, and pulled back the charging handle once more.

He shoved the cloth back inside and pulled out another one, this one slightly longer and bulkier.

This rifle was already almost fully assembled. With the exception of the additional accessories in the cloth, the rifle was almost fully operational.

Doing a quick check on the 3-10x40 mm Weaver scope to make sure it was not damaged, he carefully set the scope onto a set of rings on the rifles scope mount, locking it down tightly on the frame before double-checking the calibration of the scope to his specifications.

Checking his flash suppressor to make sure it was clear, he pulled out yet another knife from the rucksack, an M6 bayonet, and locked the nearly foot long knife into place to test its serviceability.

Shaking the rifle around, he took the bayonet off and set it inside his sack for later use, slipping it into a black sheath before putting it away.

Pulling out a Harris bipod, he clamped the accessory under the rifle, swiveling the legs to make it more compact on the rifle. He finished it off with attaching a leather sling onto the two sling swivels on the rifle.

He pulled back the handle of the rifle and locked it in place, checking the chamber for any dirt or debris before hauling out the magazines at his disposal.

With a half-dozen 20-round magazines in total, he was content to load them up and stuff them into pouches on his vest. Even then he still had plenty of surplus ammunition in the box, but decided to turn towards other important affairs.

Hauling out his first-aid kit and trauma pack he stuffed them into a pair of pouches made specifically for first-aid materials, making sure they were filled and ready for use before proceeding.

Dumping out ten Meals-Ready-to-Eat, or MRE's, he stuffed four of his preferred choices into a pair of pouches before throwing the rest into his rucksack.

He finished off the last pouch by shoving a few handfuls of bullets into it, and the jangle of brass could be heard as he grabbed his camelback and pulled it across his back, the slight sloshing of water showing it was almost full.

Geoffrey stuck one more pouch on his belt, more of a loop than an actual pouch, where he shoved a heavy duty flashlight through it.

Fishing through the sack, he yanked out a personal item of sentimental value. It was an English copy of his favorite book, a beat-up paperback of Sun Tzu's _The Art of War_. Stuffing it into a pocket on his cargo pants, he started closing up the rucksack, patting a side pouch to make sure his emergency drink was still there. You never know when he would need the motivational boost of a glass bottle of Coca-Cola.

Shoving everything to the bottom of the sack, he tossed the ammo box in as well, its weight now light enough to be easier to carry on his back. Just for good measure, he put his last item on top of it all for concealment, his knee-length Ghillie suit.

Bending down to pick up his rifles, he shoved a magazine into the M21 and let the handle slide forward, but he still kept the safety on for good measure.

He slung the rifle across his shoulder, letting it rest against his rucksack and even taking a minute to grab a strap on his rucksack and using it to secure the rifle to his back. He picked up his M70 once more and took a look outside.

The screams of humans and the incessant moans of "them" flowed through the air, making him shiver for a moment.

Shaking the fear away from a moment, he steeled himself for what was to come, and before he started downstairs he fished through a pocket in his pants and pulled out a beat-up camouflage boonie hat, slapping it onto his head as he stepped outside.

Pausing outside he whispered under his breath "You've gotta ask yourself one question. You feeling lucky? Well, do ya, Zeds'?"


End file.
